You Remain
by Calenlass Greenleaf
Summary: "How is it that you can be practical, precise, patient, and perceptive towards life itself, but you don't consider the same for yourself?" [[Saitou/Chizuru]] Complete.


**Title:** You Remain

**Author:** Cal (Calenlass Greenleaf)

**Disclaimer:** 薄桜鬼 belongs to IF/DF, and character designs belong to Kazuki Yone.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Spoilers:** Main game and Zuisouroku/Memories of Love, specifically Saitou's route. _Slight_ nod to Hakumyu Saitou-hen—Matsuda Ryo is forever Saitou to me.

**Timeframe:** Maybe a month or so after the last part of Zuisouroku. Their relationship…moves slowly.

**Warnings:** This is Saitou, so angst, feelings, and awkward blushing, hopefully with some cute and romance thrown in. Some violence. Maybe more angst than I anticipated. Falls under hurt/comfort?

**Pairing:** Saitou/Chizuru

* * *

><p><strong><em>You Remain<em>**

_ "__Slow your breath; unclench your fist. Even in sleep you are ready for war."_

- **The Golden Wing** / thebookofendings tumblr

**.**

One must wonder, if his throat ever feels tight or heavy. Or, if his mind is full and brimming and it just waits for a chance to be poured and spent. But all one has to do it look at his eyes, to read the lines there that he does not say. Silent people aren't stilted in thoughts or words. If give the right moment, they will speak, and all will listen. Saitou, whether he wants to or not, is this sort of person. To answer those questions—sometimes, his voice is lodged halfway between reality and thoughts, with the deliberating of whether or not to speak as the gateway. His mind is active, but unconsciously. How often do you think about the act of thinking, of perusing and trailing down the paths of dreams and imagination, or the deep examination of self, others, and life?

Still, the "thinkiest" sort of person has to be brought out of their reverie. Even while he appears lost in meditations, he is not. If the wind changes, he notices the way it brushes at his bangs. A dog barks; that's the neighbours two houses away, not one. The smell of wet earth that sweeps over him tells him in an hour everything will be covered by rain waters.

If there is one thing he takes pride in, it is how he is aware and how he reacts. With calm. With grace. Sometimes, it is not the loudness of one's words, or how you stamp your reputation in swordwork, but the rather it is the tenor of brevity in his voice, and of the sharp steel in the angle of his shoulders that matches the edge of his katana.

People treat him as near indestructible. Differently from how Okita Souji was, or Nagakura Shinpachi is. Everyone is different levels of fragility and strength. Some days the belief of others is enough to even blur with his views on himself. Maybe that's why it hits rather hard when he, with utter clarity, can feel destruction if it goes his way. But the moment it does, he's gotten quite good at holding up his hands and quelling his emotions on the matter. Injuries, illness, being a rasetsu—he cannot fall. They joke how rarely he gets injured, is rarely down, and how he carries out some of the most difficult tasks. If he were to slip and allow weakness, it would make the others uncertain. If he, the one who is seen as one of the pillars of the Shinsengumi, falls, then the rest would fall as well.

It's not that he doesn't _want_ to fall. It is that he _can't_.

When he closes his eyes, he can remember the face of the hatamoto he killed, years ago. The twitch in other man's face, the realisation of death taking hold of life and about to flee with it, the loud sound of a body with no soul striking wood, and the blood that spread and spread and splattered onto him. Then how silent the dojo was. And then they ran him out.

This memory is what keeps him together. The time he lost himself, and he knew he could never do it again. The power of that memory is like his master, and it melded into his daily life. And, the mundane is something you really just allow to happen.

Maddening, isn't it?

Don't worry. It's just as maddening to him.

For example, today is the third day Saitou is sick. No one panic, breathe, or say a word. He'll simply say he's fine.

The important question: Does Chizuru know?

No.

She gets better at reading him; he gets better at hiding certain things. But sickness is that stupid weakness that he frankly finds disgusting about himself and would rather not draw attention to it. For goodness' sake, it's nothing compared torture of wanting blood. It's just a little fever, some aches, niggling cough, half-loss of his senses…

…the last bit, he does feel more annoyance towards. He half-heartedly eats dinner, speaks less than he already does, and retires early.

Night-time. The time he allows his thoughts to muddle, to criss-cross and settle. Underneath blankets, the weight of it all sinks and Saitou entrances himself in this. The wind whispers to him and he replies to it with his thoughts, and he waits for sleep.

Instead, a bird visits him. His bird. She has a feather-light touch and a persistent beak and knowing eyes.

"Hajime-san?"

This is someone who commands his name; he opens heavy eyes and sees her bending over him, face in shadow. When she sees that he's awake, she lights the lamp. The glow, he thinks, suits the shape of her face. One day, he ought to tell her, when he put it into the right words.

Right now, her brow is furrowed. Concern balances on her tongue; he can sense it there.

"I'm fine."

"But I haven't even asked."

"…" Perhaps he should sit up. It might give him advantage in speaking—

…or it could make him lean over and clutch his head because the room suddenly throws his balance to the wind. As quick as he can, he straightens himself. "I already knew you were going to ask."

Chizuru folds her hands in her lap, tilting her head. "Then you would know my reply to that, wouldn't you?"

He's glad his face is already hot; it saves him from blushing. "You needn't trouble yourself about this. A night's sleep—"

"—would help, but not fully." She never loudly interrupts if she can help it. Quiet admonishment that always gives him pause. "You kept coughing last night."

"Did I keep you awake?" At this, he really does tighten his lips, straighten his shoulders, and make amends. "I apologise for that. Tonight, I'll sleep in another room."

"You're not going anywhere." She puts her hand out and lays it on his arm. "Here is fine."

_Here is fine._

Saitou is a master of conciseness, but Chizuru is a deity at replying. He looks at her, gaze somewhere between questioning and resignation.

"I don't want to get you sick." He doesn't like seeing her ill. It doesn't suit her. It makes him nervous, actually.

"It's been three days and I'm not sick, meaning it's not catching," she states, "I'll be fine."

He shakes his head, knowing it's a losing side for him.

"Hajime-san." He doesn't get tired of how she says his name. Though, right now, she pronounces it with more force. "I'm not going anywhere tonight. You should lie down."

He wants to. He really does. Every fibre in him beckons to sleep, to unconsciousness instead of this prickly fever and other symptoms that hold him captive. However, he has to say something first.

"Does it bother you that much, every time I brush off your concern?" He swallows and exhales. Some difficulty is involved. "It's not that I dislike it. But I think that other things are more important than—"

"_Saitou._" Mid-blink, and suddenly her hand is against his forehead, making him sit up straighter in surprise. "If you don't lie down, then tomorrow I will keep calling you 'Saitou' until you make up for it."

A stupefied looks crosses his face before he realises how unsightly it is, and he shuts his mouth quickly. This was worse than her taking his papers and threatening his superiors on him.

His glare is broken by the uncomfortable tickle in his throat that seizes up his shoulders and seems to drag a thin line of pain down his throat.

"…"

She waits.

He grudgingly slides back down, into his blankets. "I would not answer if you called me Saitou, because I have grown too accustomed to you saying 'Hajime-san' all this time."

Chizuru makes no attempt to hide her smile. "Well, so have I." She strokes the side of his face, and her smile disappears. "But really—you let it get this bad. Maybe it's the flu and not a cold…"

"I think it's only a cold."

She continues, as if she didn't hear him. "I'll bring you something. Fevers more than a few days aren't good." Her hand lifts, and with her goes the feeling of distress.

Saitou stares up the ceiling, her footsteps in the back of his ears. It wasn't that bad, was it? The room swims a little, and maybe he feels somewhat cold, but he can breathe mostly fine and he's not hunched over in pain.

She has twice the concern to make up for his lack, by all appearances. However, he does admit, as he coughs into his hand and attempts to clear his throat, he's more concerned for her than he is about himself. Memories of him discovering her illness and slipping in her room to keep her company. Her hands were always warm and gentle, even in her illness when she grasped it until she feel asleep.

It makes him smile.

Chizuru returns, asking him why he's smiling, but he doesn't reply. Instead, he puts his hand out, his knuckles brushing against her cheek. "I have always looked after you."

"Ah—?"

"From the very beginning. I never minded it. You were always polite, kind, and listened to people. It was a good first impression. Even Souji saw it, though he would not be the one to say it. Maybe back then you might have thought I was cold, because we barely spoke to each other, but from the start you were honest…"

"…"

"…"

"…that was a lot of words."

"I felt it was necessary to say them."

Her fingers press to his forehead again, and he sees her bite her lip. "I think it's your fever talking."

He doesn't reply, as he's too busy studying how her bangs frame her face. One strand clings to her cheek and he wants to push it away. Before he can do anything, she lays a wet towel over his forehead, obscuring his vision.

"Don't talk," she tells him before he can protest, "…usually I don't have to tell you that…"

"But I have many others things to say to you that you must know." If only he could remember the first one. Usually his memory is excellent…why is it failing now, of all times?

She pats his hand. "Tell me tomorrow when you're better…or it'll be days before I stop calling you 'Saitou.'" His thoughts of consternation must have shown, because he can feel her bend closer and press a kiss to his cheek. "I'm going to bring you some ginger tea, and you're going to drink it, and then you'll sleep."

He murmurs his response; once again, her hand leaves him, and he lies on his back. A droplet of water slides down his nose, which he rubs at. Some of the tightness in his temples goes away, and he makes a list of things that Chizuru has to hear—tomorrow morning, of course.

She has a certain authority over his first name that no else has. It's different from Souji and Heisuke's easy "Hajime-kun." In fact, no has ever called him "Hajime-san" the way she does. The first syllable is soft, gently bumping into the second, and finishing with "me-san" with that slides easily over her tongue with a quiet さ sound.

When Chizuru comes back, she tells him he has a very pleasant smile. He's relieved that his face is half-covered, though she removes to the cloth to let him sit up.

Ginger tea is strange; it first burns bitter hot but then eases against his throat, melting into a spicy sugary taste which coats his tongue. The steam is better than the heat of his face, and he gladly curls his hands around cup.

"Are you sure you don't wish to sleep in another room?"

"I'm sure."

He relents and says nothing more about this.

Their silence is always comfortable. She keeps her hand on his back, eyes on his movements as if to make sure he finishes everything. He savours every sip for the warm it brings, gaze and mind wandering until he coughs.

"Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"It was not a problem."

"I don't think that's the problem here."

He looks up to see emotions flashing through her eyes. Was that disappointment? Or sadness? A woman's eyes were more infinitely complex than a man's, someone had said, and he sees the truth in this statement.

"Is it not?"

"I thought…" she stops, eyes shifting downwards. "Never mind. Tomorrow's better for speaking."

If not for the heavy, weary aching in his body, he would dissent. But even if he were not feeling as bad, he'd hate to argue with her. Their disagreements were far and few, and never loudly verbal. Most of the time it is him rebuffing something she says, and later he admits he sees her way, and he apologises just as quickly.

Something tells him if he argued tonight, it wouldn't be like that.

As she pulls blankets over him, he catches her eye to say a thank you. She smiles, but it doesn't touch her entire face. When he closes his eyes and she puts the cloth over his head again, it's not without a sense of disquiet.

Sleep thankfully comes quickly; the last he thing he recalls is her hand against his forehead, like an anchor to the real world and his dreams.

She never answered his question: _Does it bother you that much, every time I brush off your concern?_

**. . .**

_Only dead people have no conscience. All other beings on this earth have them—the problem isn't whether or not you one, but whether or not you give a damn and listen to it. Or not. And sometimes, conscience doesn't even play a part. Wars something happen and you choose a side. Not the side that fits your morals, but rather the side that you think suits your ideals the best. That's right; morals and ideals are different. Morals direct your life, but ideals are masterminds._

_But we're talking about conscience here. Call it the voice in your head, or the arguments you have with yourself. _

_The fact is Saitou listened to it the day he killed his first person._

_Regrets in his life are far and few. He's too careful with his words and actions most of the time. However, when you're young, you try to hold your head up higher than you really ought. Maybe you're a little blinded by confidence. There's a streak of aggressiveness too. _

_They couldn't beat your uniqueness out of you. Besides, you found a group that recognised you. No one cared which hand was your dominant. The only thing that matter was how well you fought._

_So you challenge someone of high rank. If you lost, it would prove that you were wrong, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself, and that you could never be bushido._

_However, if you won…now, wouldn't that settle everything?_

_But you didn't count on real swords. You didn't count on being that good. You did not count on killing._

_And neither did you expect to be thrown out, even more despised than before._

_"__So he's a killer by nature."_

_"__He definitely cheated."_

_"__Can he even be acknowledged?"_

_You ran._

_It wasn't the killing that bothered you. It wasn't the blood. It wasn't even about which hand you used. It was wrong from the moment you left home and tried to do this the wrong way. Was this all you wanted in life? To be known as the only left-handed samurai? For fame?_

_Stupid, stupid, __**stupid**__._

_So you changed your last name, but you were reluctant to part with your first. Hajime; for you were born on the dawn of a new year._

_You spent a night staring at your sword, and wondering if you ought to give up or find another purpose. At last, you go to Kyoto, for a new purpose._

_Still for years it plagues you. A stain; other people who've killed can tell you've spilled blood as well. Throwing your lot in with other people who are called murderers, it's a good way to hide the past. You're no longer brash. You no longer attempt to draw attention to yourself. Your sword has purpose—so everything's all right, yes?_

_But then there's the recurring dream. It began after you first killed. It followed you to Kyoto. It continued to sit in your shadow as the Shinsengumi fractured._

_It always begins the same way. A walk in a forest, with no stars or moon. You rely on your other senses. But then something swipes by you, and you draw your katana. A cold chill settles between your shoulder blades. You rarely feel fear, but this is definitely the name for the itchy unease in the back of your head that wriggles down to your clammy hands and tightened muscles._

_Something cuts you. A flash of white. Too fast. Your iai is fast too, but not fast enough. It feels like you are cutting wind and leaves._

_Do you imagine the laughter, or is it really there?_

_And then something hits you; you forget how to breathe for one second—_

_And your weapons are gone._

_Forget breathing; your chest hurts like a stabbing went clean through from front to back. Something holds you down; your own blade is pointed at you. A heavy presence, drooling contempt and glee. Only in this dream do you ever panic. True terror that makes you want to gut your own stomach and die with dignity, but at the same time it forces you to struggle against the weight on you because you can't be without your sword, you can't be without direction. You need—_

—

"_Saitou_."

He opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is her face, drawn and white, and her lips forming his name. "Chi…zuru?"

"Do you need blood?"

Blood? But then his hair falls into his face, pale strands that he has not seen for a long times. The next thing he realises is that his arm is pinned to her chest, and his other arm grips her wrist. He's on top of her.

Something worse than fear floods his body and he wrenches himself away. At least his head strikes his pillow when he stumbles. His fingers shake and he can't tell if he is cold or hot, or both. A cough slips out—oddly enough, he thinks of Souji and wishes he had more time to visit before the other passed on. But remnant thoughts never last long, especially when he faces the fact that had his arm been a little higher…

Accident or no, he just came close to killing the one person who would never hurt him.

Dizzy pain spirals in his chest as he attempts to breath and think simultaneously. His hair is still white; he needs to return…

"Are you all right?" Chizuru kneels in front of him, hands reaching for him.

"I don't need blood." He shakes his head and moves away from her. No, there's no piercing pain, no blurring vision, no terrible thirst or any of the old symptoms. Just a deep-set, horrible ache that rakes down his back and sides and squeezes his heart. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"Yes I—"

"_No_." Her voice cracks, and then solidifies. "No," she repeats, softly but with more strength than if she had shouted it. "Why do you always say that?"

"Because…" because he's used to it. He has too. He must be, for Hijikata's sake, for the sake of the Shinsengumi. The person that stands for others. "You know."

"Hajime-san."

His heart seizes up and he rubs the side of his head. Shame hunches his shoulders and he forces himself to straighten them.

"Please don't say that anymore."

He feels himself nod.

Everyone has some bad dreams, some worse than others. He only ever has this one recurring dream, but it's been a while and so he forgot, or maybe he hoped it would never come up again. Dragging his hand through his bangs, he finally calms whatever agitated the transformation and feels his body return to normal, slightly. A fever isn't normal, after all.

Only then does he look at her, avoiding her eyes. "Are you all right?" If he had left marks on her…

She shakes her head. "You only took me by surprise." Her hand lifts her hair away from her face and neck; no bruises or cuts. "But you took terrible."

"I'm f—" He stops himself. His body aches even worse than before and he can't seem to stop shivering. It's dark so she probably won't see that, but even he has a hard him believing he is anything close to fine. "It's nothing to worry about."

"But," Fabric rustles as she pulls herself closer to him. "You sounded like you were in a pain. That was a nightmare, wasn't it?"

"So?"

"I can get you something to help you sleep—"

"No." Saitou tilts his head sharply, reminiscent how he slices his blade. "I can sleep without it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. But," he turns, adjusting the blankets and pulling the pillow back in place, "perhaps you should sleep in the other room."

So he won't attack her again if he dreams. That's if he even falls asleep again; everything about him right now is tense, and he doesn't want to bother her with his tossing and turnings. She's probably been kept awake the past two nights, and that was bad enough.

"What don't you want me to see?"

He stills. It's not what he doesn't want her to see. It's what she does see and already knows and sometimes if he thinks about it, he wonders how she stands it. Him.

"Hajime-san?"

She doesn't raise her voice, nor does she have to. He lets his hands fall in his lap. Shuffling noises make him look up, and he sees her in front of him. He keeps his eyes trained on the lower half of her face. If he looks in her eyes—

"You don't have to tell me what you dreamed about, not unless you want to. But you can't keep doing this."

—he would feel himself drawn more to her than he already is. Like the hands she places on his shoulders, her gaze beseeches him to speak.

"I thought I told you before that it's not about whether or not you're always right, or if you did something you thought would be too ugly for me to see."

So she did.

"Are you resisting me, or yourself? Do you think you don't deserve this?"

When her arms, thin and in all appearances fragile, slip around his shoulders, they hold him with a force stronger than how he grips his sword. Her breath, warm and steady, is against his ear.

Saitou finally replies, the words not quite keeping up with his mind, but he has to. "I don't know everything I deserve or don't deserve. I do know I don't deserve you, but you chose to remain." He would laugh, but it gets stuck and turns into a clearing of his throat. "Tonight, I might've killed you in my sleep."

"You didn't, though."

"Can I guarantee it next time?"

"You stopped this time. And I think I know you well enough to know you'll do it again." She shifts her hold, fingers getting tangled in his hair and in the folds of his yukata. The warmth is different from the heat still emanating from his body, one that he welcomes. "Besides, you're sick. Fevers do strange things."

_They don't justify violence. Nor this recurring dream._ He almost says it, but he wants to listen to her voice instead.

"Remember that time I had a cold and I thought you were a hallucination? I was very silly, wasn't I?"

_No, you were very endearing and I did not mind caring for you that night._

"But you stayed until I fell asleep, holding my hand."

_You were something precious to me by then, although I hadn't known it._

"Isn't it natural that I want to do the same for you?"

When she says it like that, it does sound very reasonable.

"I am not like you. This dream is been with me since I was nineteen, and I doubt I'll be rid of anytime soon." Excuse or reasoning, whatever this response is, he lets it slip out as his last resistance even as his body gives in and he rests his forehead on her shoulder.

Maybe a minute passes by before he says something again. "However, I want to entrust more of myself to you."

It simply doesn't come naturally. Chizuru knows his strengths and weakness. She knows his likes and dislikes. She knows a great many things about him that other people, even if they knew him longer, would never know. She was the first person to ever ask about his well-being, to see him more as someone always cool, calm and collected. Yet he still withholds himself. Call it habit, call it self-defence—a lot of excuses linger in his mind even as he brings his own arms up to embrace her. "That is, if you are still willing to let me. I don't want to take…_this,_ for granted."

The word "this" encompasses many things. Her concern. Love. Everything about her, really. It had been so very confusing in the early days when she expressed distress about his condition as a rasetsu. Was there something about him that asked for her words? He had examined himself for days afterwards, wondering if there were cracks in that which he holds together. Yet as time went on, he finds it wasn't him—it was her. An inexplicable ability of being there, staying with him. Unasked and unlooked for, but now…

The smile in her voice holds no patronization. "You said so yourself—there's nothing to fix. If there _is_ anything, I didn't love you because you needed someone to fix you."

When did he stop shaking? When did he suddenly want to cradle her face in his fingers, just to see the sincerity that he can sense radiating off her? When did she become a remedy for insecurity?

"Chizuru." He lays the back of his hand against her cheek. "You have said so many times that you would stay by my side." He would kiss her, if not for illness. "And I'm glad. Have I…ever told you I want to stay with you as well?"

"I could stand listening to you say it more often." She uses her sleeve to rub away the sweat that gathered on his forehead. "So you can say it as much as you want to."

His hand finds hers, their fingers twining and resting against his chest. It's not as if his fever is gone. He still aches, still breathes erratically, and he still feels weary. He'll continue to have dreams until he dies, and he still doesn't speak his mind unless he has to. Many of these things don't change. Saitou Hajime is this sort of person.

But in that instant, he can laugh. Not loud mirth, but the soft, reassured kind of someone who knows they have found a measure of peace.

That is the sort of change that is welcoming. The side of his face rests against hers, and it feels like they've breached a sort of wall he didn't even remember building up in his life. He has the feeling she already knew, already figured out many things about him that he has never said. She never points them out, not forwardly. It is easy to find fault, to accuse. It is far harder to be patient, waiting, and let him say things on his own.

In a way, though, it's a skill. Saitou understands timing; his fastest attack depended on the very precision of sliding his blade out of the sheath, too fast for the eye to follow, and the exact force of plunging it into his target. Chizuru does the same thing with her words, slipping them into the right conversations, the questions that strike and somehow invoke vulnerability and solidarity at the same time.

At first, he hadn't understood it. The way his heart would seem to pause and something would then tighten. How it made him force his shoulders back as if he had to stand taller, even though something in him would fight it and tell him there isn't any danger. Not from her.

It's because he can leave his fears with her, like a stronghold.

Sleep once again pulls at him; at this proximity, her pulse is right next to his ear, and this is what he closes his eyes to—the sound of a life that is tangled with his, they way their hands are.

**. . .**

The next time Saitou wakes up, it is morning and the sun is poking through the cracks in the windows he hasn't gotten around to fixing yet. A careful swallowing tells him his throat finally no longer hurts, and he is also pleased to find he is no longer swimming in a fever haze. He turns his head and sees Chizuru, curled up on her side and hand still around his. Nearly all the blankets are piled on him; he touches her cheek and finds it a little chilly.

That won't do. He shifts the blankets over her body and after a moment's hesitation, pulls her towards him. Her eyes flutter open when he settles his arm over her shoulder, and he apologises for waking her up.

"But it's morning, so I have to get up."

"You can sleep a little longer." His fingers caress the strands of hair that fall in her face. "We were both up late last night."

She seems to consider this, and then gives in by burrowing closer. "You look better." Cool fingers trace his temple and he leans into her touch.

"I am." He studies her face, and decides he likes how her cheeks are dusted in pink and her voice is muted from sleep. "Thank you."

For many things.

In the moment that follows, their eyes meet, and he fights the urge to kiss her. However, she is the one to bring her lips to meet his. His hand rises at first, to resist; but she inhales against his mouth. He breathes in her essence and finds it better than any other sort of air, and somewhere in the back of his mind he hopes she won't fall ill when her hands fist the front of his yukata and he presses his thighs to her knees.

"Wait," he manages to say when they pull away. "I don't think…" Reluctantly, he has to admit he's still tired, even though a different sort of heat is running through his body and his pulse is answering to the way she presses herself to him. "Sorry."

Her answer is to press lips to his forehead, and gently tap him on his nose. "It's all right. I think I just like seeing you blush."

"…"

"It's endearing."

"…"

"…Hajime-san?"

His response is to bury his face against the pillow. It probably doesn't hide the state of his ears. Her laughter cocoons the both of them and she curls against his back, more solid than any clothing and warmer than any blanket. But the edge of his mouth is curved upwards, because…it's not bad that she likes certain things about him.

"_Ne_." She tucks her hands into the crooks of his arms. "How is it that you can be practical, precise, patient, and perceptive towards life itself, but you don't consider the same for yourself?"

He tugs at her hands so they are clasped around his waist. "That's why I have _you_."

As a reminder, but more than that. She remains and so he can always find his strength in her. In the way she says his name. The way she holds his hand.

He would not replace her with any other choice that his life had offered him.

**_.end._**

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I didn't make up the part about Saitou calling her a stronghold. He does it in his epilogue in Reimeiroku: "Don't forget. It's because of you that I can fight without losing myself. I'm glad you're worried about me […] Please understand. You are my last stronghold."


End file.
